She Wants The TPG
by sandie.eggo
Summary: Awakened by a heatwave, Ariadne encounters a half-naked stranger on her couch who is definitely real and not some heat-induced mirage.


**Author's Greeting:** Hello! I've been filling some prompts for AA fest (see profile for information), and here's the first one I'm posting here. I'll be posting the other works in a compilation, depending on length. This one is based on a couple of prompts: 1) an "I accidentally broke into your house/apartment because my friend lives next door to you and I was in the area, drunk, and I _thought _I was climbing into the right window and falling asleep on the right couch (and I _did_ wonder when my friend got two cats but I didn't question it) so now I'm hungover and shirtless in your living room so um hi howya doin" au, and 2) "Why don't you come over here and prove it." Also, I couldn't resist writing a shirtless Arthur.

**Rating: **PG-13/R: for language

**Disclaimers:** I lay claim to nothing in this piece of fiction. Cover graphic courtesy of tumblr user: odetoanightingale

* * *

**She Wants The TPG**

The day is only barely beginning when Ariadne wakes up to a hot, stuffy room and bright sunlight hitting her in the face. The red digital numbers on her bedside clock read six twenty-one and with a groan, she buries her head under her pillow. It did the trick of blocking out the light, but she can't stand it for too long, the heat being too unbearable.

_Ugh. It's not even six-thirty but it feels like mid-afternoon already._

Sitting up on the edge of her bed, she pulls at her thin tank top to fan air to her damp skin. This was the second morning of the current heat wave the whole state was experiencing, and she isn't sure she's going to survive it. And it's _so _early in the morning.

_Coffee, I need coffee. If I'm going to have to face the day this early, I _need _coffee._

After pulling her hair into a ponytail, Ariadne heads out to the kitchen.

And stops short with an audible gasp.

There's a naked body draped over her couch!

She grabs the nearest weapon within her reach, a metal and wire knick-knac replica of the Eiffel Tower, and takes a quick survey around the room to see if there are any other interlopers. Finding none, she refocuses on the naked man seemingly asleep on her couch.

Technically, he isn't naked. He is wearing a small pair of dark grey boxer briefs that do  
nothing to hide what appears to be a nicely toned ass.

_What am I doing, checking out an intruder's ass? Who the fuck is he and what the fuck is he doing here? Is he some crazy homeless guy, or some tweeker high out of his mind…_

The stranger moans and turns over, cursing when the sunlight hits his face. His very handsome face.

"Shit. Why is it so fucking _daytime_ in here," he mumbles before grabbing the nearest pillow and smothering his face with it.

For a moment the abruptness and coincidence of his actions leaves Ariadne in shock.

Then, much like she had earlier, he tosses the pillow aside before sitting up, rubbing the palms of his hands against his eyes, groaning all the while.

"Are you alright?"

_You did _not _just ask after a strange half-naked man's well-being. He broke into your home for christssake!_

When the stranger looks up he does something she isn't expecting.

He smiles.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't wake you, did I?"

There's an attractive, half-naked stranger sitting on her couch, apologizing. Smiling at her. He has _dimples_.

_Oh my god, Ariadne, focus! He's an intruder who could murder you!_

"Who are you?" She holds out the Eiffel Tower in a threatening gesture. "How did you get in here?"

"Hey, take it easy." He gets up slowly, wincing as the sunlight shines into his bleary eyes. Holding his hands in a supplicating manner, he explains, "I'm Arthur. We met last night at the bar. I don't remember which one. I'm still a little hungover so my brain's a bit foggy. Is Eames up yet?"

_Hmm, I'm pretty sure I would remember picking up a hot piece of ass at a bar and bringing him back to my place last night._

But he knows Eames. That would explain…well, nothing yet, but at least she recognizes her frequently out of town neighbor's name.

"I wouldn't know," she says, continuing to wield the Eiffel Tower. "How did you get in here?"

Behind him, she notices her half-opened window. Following her line of sight, Arthur turns to look back, shielding his eyes against an onslaught of sunshine.

"Uh, I must've crawled through the window."

She feels like she's talking to a child. "And why did you do that?"

He gives a very un-childlike answer. "Probably because I was drunk off my ass." With a sigh he plops back down on her couch, cradling his head in his hands. "It was that last round of shots that did it," he mutters.

His confession is elucidating and she starts to piece together what might have happened. _He's friends with Eames which explains a lot. They got drunk out of their minds last night. Eames lives next door so…_

_This guy is not some crazed psychokiller, just crazed._

"Fucking Eames! When he wakes up I'm going to kill him."

She processes that statement with a shrug.

_Eames probably deserves it._

With a little less trepidation and a bit more amusement she watches as he wearily rubs his hand over his face and waits for realization to finally dawn on him. Judging by the frown that forms on his face, it doesn't take long.

"What's with all those designs on the walls? Does he think he can be an architect, too?" He's referring to the framed replicas she has hanging on _her _walls. They're drawings and designs of several architectural exemplars. It's rather fitting décor she thinks, for an architect like her.

As he continues to scan the room, each moment that passes make his eyes grow noticeably wider, until they finally fall on her and the _weapon_ she still has in her hand. Quicker than she thought possible in his state, he jumps up off her couch, kicking the pillow he discarded earlier. It's in the shape of Hello Kitty.

"Oh shit!" He belatedly remembers his modesty and grabs Hello Kitty to hide his crotch.

Despite her earlier anxiety about finding a near naked stranger in her home, she can't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. It's like a scene out of a screwball comedy. Or the beginning of a really bad porno. Without the sex, of course.

"This isn't Eames' place, is it?" He continues to take in her furnishings: her drafting table and laptop sitting on one side of the window, the bright colors of several scarves discarded on a blue, overstuffed chair, the yellow bookshelf filled with various books and framed pictures. "You're not the girl who left the bar with Eames."

She confirms this with a shake of her head.

"Who are you? And where am I?"

"I'm Ariadne and you're in _my_ home. Eames is my next door neighbor."

"Shit, I broke into the wrong house?" He sits back on the couch, as if he's not quite sure how to process this revelation. Either that or the hangover is taking its toll.

Ariadne sets the Eiffel Tower back onto the small side table where she grabbed it, nearly certain that this stranger—Arthur—isn't some blood thirsty sociopath.

"I swear I'm going to gut that son of a bitch and then string him up with his own intestines."

_On second thought._

"Oh, no, sorry." He's quick to apologize when he notices her pick the statue back up again. "I'm joking. Sort of—I mean, Eames is my friend. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. This is all just a misunderstanding fuelled by too much tequila and," he grimaces, "Jäger."

Ariadne relaxes her stance, but continues to hang on to the statue.

"I should just go," he continues, abruptly, reaching for his cell phone and wallet on her coffee table. "I'm really sorry for all this. I'm sorry if I scared you. Let me just get dressed and I'll be out of your way…"

She has no qualms this time as she ogles his butt when he bends down to check under the couch for his clothes.

"Oh, fuck!" He throws his head back, lips pinched tight. "I just remembered I lost my clothes."

"You _lost _your clothes? How?"

"It's a long story, but there was a bet involved and needless to say a lot of alcohol, and well…obviously I'm not very good at making rational judgments when I'm piss-drunk."

Ariadne does her best to suppress the laugh threatening to escape as Arthur takes a seat on her couch again, burying his head in his hands with a sigh. She really shouldn't laugh at his misfortunes. But a chuckle makes its way past her sealed lips, and then another until there's no more holding back and she's laughing in earnest.

He looks up at her with a defeated smile. "I bet you never thought in a million years you'd wake up to some random, half-naked dude breaking into your house and passing out on your couch."

"Now _there's _a bet you can win." Arthur grimaces and her renewed laughter ends in a smile.

Setting aside the Eiffel Tower for good this time, she continues on to her original destination.

_Okay, this is bizarre, but I'll go with it. I think I can trust this guy. He knows Eames so…alright, that might not be a ringing endorsement of his character, but I mean, he lost his clothes, what's the worst he could do to me while nearly naked?_

She chooses not to explore the possibilities, fully aware of his rather nice body, her physical attraction to him, and the fact she hasn't had sex in a while.

"I was in desperate need of some coffee before…" she waves her hand in his general direction, "all this. But I think between the two of us, you need it more."

"Thank you." He follows her to the kitchen where she sets to work on making coffee. "Um, if it's not too much trouble, I could also use some aspirin," he asks, suddenly meek.

"No trouble at all." And then, because she can't help herself, adds, "At least, no more than finding some random, half-naked dude breaking into my house and passing out on my couch."

When he actually blushes, she laughs out loud again before pointing in the direction of her room. "It's in the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. Go right ahead." With a mumbled 'thank you', he makes a quick exit. Amused she yells out, "I trust you won't steal anything. Where would you hide it?"

* * *

When the coffee is ready Ariadne puts a tray together with two mugs along with some sugar and cream and takes it back out to the living room. She finds Arthur on her couch with one of her bath towels wrapped around his waist, on his cell phone and in the middle of a conversation with someone.

"—your neighbor's house…yeah, I scared the shit out of her when she found me this morning…it's not funny…no, on her couch!...I _thought_ I was breaking into your place…because you took my clothes and left me half-ass drunk wandering your neighborhood, you dick."

Though she can't hear Eames' side of the conversation, she does hear him guffawing on the other end of the line as she sets the tray down on the coffee table and takes a seat next to Arthur on her couch.

"Listen, come over and bring me my clothes…WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T HAVE THEM, WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY!?...SHIT!…fine, whatever, just bring me some of your clothes…yeah right now…where are you?…is that the girl from the bar last night?…well, how far is that?…I SWEAR TO GOD, EAMES…what?...why?…no…what are you going to tell her?…FINE!"

After an exasperated curse, Arthur shoves his cell phone toward her."Eames would like to have a word."

She raises her brow in question but sets her coffee down and takes the phone from his hand. "Hello?"

"Ariadne, it's Eames from next door."

"Yeah, I figured that out from the murderous rage on your friend's face. Should I be worried?" She takes a glance at Arthur, who is fixing up his coffee: two sugar cubes and a splash of cream.

"Of Arthur? No! I can vouch for him. He's a great guy. He may be a little out of sorts this morning, being hungover and in his skivvies, but he'd never harm you, I promise."

"I wasn't talking about me, I was talking about you."

"What? Me? Oh, I'm not worried about that, he's my mate. But listen, I hate to ask this of you, but do you think you could let him stay with you for a bit?"

"What? Why?"

"Well, I know he doesn't have any clothes on at the moment—which, by the way, remind me to tell you that story, you'll get a kick out of it. Granted, he was drunk, but he bet me—

"Eames! Get to the point." As much as she wants to hear the story, she has more pressing matters to attend to, namely a guy in his underwear sitting on the couch next to her.

"Right. You see, I sort of, kind of, lost his clothing somewhere between the pub and my current female companion's place."

"And let me guess, you're not home."

"No."

She turns to look at Arthur, who is sitting against her couch, head back, eyes closed. She can tell he's not asleep by the pained expression on his face. "And when will you be coming back home?"

"That's the thing…"

He proceeds to explain to her in some detail about TPG (that's _triple promise guarantee_: great sex, followed by great food, followed by even more great sex) and how that expectation is doubled when the girl you go home with has a roommate and they're both up for experimentation and really, a man's word should mean something. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

"Okay, I get it! It's too early in the morning for that much information about my neighbor." She's starting to realize some of Arthur's frustration.

"So, is it okay if he stays?"

"Yes, it's fine." Not that she has much choice in the matter.

"Great, thank you, you're a doll. I owe you one."

"Yeah, yeah." All she can do is roll her eyes, this day becoming more bizarre by the hour. And to think, there's still much of the day left. What else could possibly happen?

"Actually, you may even be thanking _me_ by the end of the day." He sounds contemplative.

_What is he going on about now?_

"Hmm. Yeah." She hears him snicker to himself. "I have a feeling you won't find entertaining a guy as interesting and attractive, not to mention _half-naked, _as Arthur that much of an inconvenience. And for that, you're welcome. I'll see you in a bit. Cheers!" Before she has time to ask what he means or to check to see if Arthur heard any of that last part, Eames hangs up the phone.

When she does turn to Arthur he's still lying back against the couch with his eyes closed but relaxed, as if he may have fallen asleep. This close she can just make out the dark circles under his eyes, and the faint patch of stubble lining his mouth and the sharp angles on his jaw. A shaft of sunlight illuminates his bare chest, drawing her eyes there to inspect the toned muscles in his chest and arms before her eyes stray to the small trail of hair under his navel that dips behind the low-slung towel he has wrapped around his narrow waist. Long legs stretch out in front of him, crossed at the ankles and ending at two fairly attractive feet.

Her gaze wanders back up the length of him, _because why the hell not_, but she must have been dwelling on his torso for a while because when she finally makes it back to his face and meets his half-lidded eyes, he gives her a very knowing—and very sexy—little smile.

_God, what would it be like to wake up to that every morning?_

"I hope you don't mind, I borrowed your towel."

_Yeah, I do. It was blocking the best bits._

She's not sure whether the heat engulfing her body is from embarrassment at getting caught gawking, or arousal when his smile widens and makes his eyes crinkle and produce those dimples she admired earlier.

It's both.

"No, no, you're fine—it's fine!" She breaks eye contact and rises from the couch to put some distance between herself and her new guest. If she stayed where she was any longer, she may do something stupid, like touch him to see if his body felt as nice as it looked.

"So, um, it looks like you might be stuck here for a while."

Sitting back up, Arthur sighs before wearily rubbing his hand over his face. It's a gesture she's becoming familiar with in their short acquaintance and she finds herself feeling sympathy towards him.

"I'm really sorry about this. I don't want to inconvenience you." He gives her a wry smile. "I mean, not any more than I already have, obviously."

She shrugs, always one to look on the bright side of things. "Well, if anything, this will make for a really good story. I've always wanted to be able to tell a good one about that funny, bizarre, random thing that happened to me. I think this is it."

Arthur laughs. "You're welcome. I suppose it's the least I can do."

They stare at each other for a moment before Ariadne looks away, feeling the awkwardness of the moment. _Great, now what are we going to do for the next couple of hours, or however long it's going to take for Eames to…make good on his promises and come back home._

"Are you hungry?" she asks, for lack of anything better to say. "You can take a nap while I make us some breakfast. Well, maybe a short nap since by breakfast I mean I can pour you some cereal in a bowl." _First I'm treating him like he's some dangerous intruder, and now I'm asking if he wants breakfast like he's my houseguest. _

"What about pancakes?"

_Pancakes? You break into my house, I'm forced to endure your presence (hot as you may be), and tell me my cereal isn't good enough? Who do you fucking think you are?_

"I mean, do you like pancakes? I can make you some. As a thank you for putting up with…" he gestures towards his general hotness, "…all this. I can make us breakfast, if that's okay?"

_Oh._

"Sure, that sounds good."

_Half-naked man in my kitchen making me breakfast. How bad can that be?_

* * *

Turns out it is not bad at all.

Though Arthur may be a stranger to her home, Ariadne's pleasantly surprised to learn he's no stranger in the kitchen.

Currently, she's sitting at her little kitchen table, chin on her fist as she watches him bent over with his head in her fridge inspecting different items. The situation is still very surreal, especially now that he's cooking for her.

"Where's your cutting board and paring knife?"

She tells him where they are and after he retrieves them from their locations, starts to de-stem and cut up a carton of strawberries he finished rinsing.

"I thought you were making pancakes?"

"I am." He continues to easily slice through the fruit. "These are for the pancakes."

"And the Nutella?"

"Also for the pancakes."

"And let me guess, that cream you pulled out of the fridge is going to be used to make whipped cream."

"It goes well with the strawberries and Nutella."

"Are you making breakfast or dessert?"

"It's breakfast." He looks up from his cutting to give her a winsome smile. "I have been told by many people that my pancakes melt in their mouths."

On a hunch, she asks, "And how many of those people have been of the female persuasion?"

He gives her a little smirk before returning to the strawberries. "That would be most."

She has nothing to say after that, and instead admires the way he comfortably maneuvers around the small space of her kitchen—no easy feat when one is clad in only a towel and a Wonder Woman figure apron. But he moves as if he owns the room, with a confidence in his abilities that she can sense. For someone who claims he's nursing a hangover, he's remarkably adept at multi-tasking, even if it is just in the process of making her breakfast.

_Of course he'd be good at this. He pretty much admitted that he's done this many times before, no doubt with women he's slept with, and not the mistakenly-broke-into-their-homes-and-passed-out-on-their-couch slept with, but had actual sex with._

It makes her wonder about the kind of woman he's attracted to. Is he into the stereotypical, like the bubbly blonde, the fiery redhead, or the daring brunette? Would he ever be interested in cute little architects who own Hello Kitty pillows and colorful silk scarves and whose couch he passed out on after mistakenly breaking into her house?

_Whoa, where did that come from?_

_A place that says you need to get laid._

_Shut up, vagina! Now's not the time!_

"Where did you learn how to cook?" she asks in an attempt to get her nether brain to change the subject.

Arthur's just finished whipping up the cream with her hand mixer, placing a bowl of it in her fridge.

"I've picked up a few things here and there. I wouldn't say I'm a good cook or anything. I don't have much time for cooking at all, actually. But I'll try out a recipe from time to time and see what I like, what comes out good. Most of the stuff I make is okay, but occasionally I'll whip up something that's really good."

He tells her all this as he throws together and mixes what looks to be the pancake batter—flour, salt, eggs, milk, water, and melted butter. When he's done, he picks up one of the pans he has greased and heating on the stove, and pours a small amount of the batter onto it, tilting the pan in a circular motion to get a nice thin, even layer. He repeats this to a second pan he's prepared on the stove.

"You're making crepes? I thought you were making pancakes?"

He doesn't take his eyes of the pan. "Crepes are like French pancakes. But I'm not making them quite as thin as traditional crepes."

"What's going in that double boiler?" He has a pot of water boiling with a metal bowl on top.

"Oh! I almost forgot the Nutella." He grabs the jar of chocolate and hazelnut spread and spoons some into the bowl to heat it up. "I didn't ask earlier, but you wouldn't happen to have an empty squeeze bottle?" When her expression tells him she doesn't, he asks, "What about a piping bag?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm no Martha Stewart."

"That's alright, I'll make do." Amused, she watches as he flips over the first crepe. Once he finishes that, he stirs the Nutella with a whisk.

"I hope part of thanking me for letting you break into my home, fall asleep on my couch, and walk around here half-naked, involves you washing all these dishes as well. If you haven't noticed, I don't have a dishwasher."

"But I'm making you breakfast. Isn't it customary for the person making the meal to be exempt from dish duty?"

"Normally, I'd say yes, but given the circumstances, and the fact that you've dirtied up nearly every utensil and dish I have to make the meal, I'm going to go with no."

"Well, why don't we wait and see if I can change your mind about that after you try these."

There's no shortage of confidence in his boast, and she remains silent while she watches, impressed and mesmerized by the rhythm of his assembly. Taking a plate, he drizzles some of the melted Nutella onto it before placing the first crepe on top. After he gets another crepe going, he pulls the whipped cream and sliced strawberries out from the fridge, applying a thin layer of each on top before adding another drizzle of Nutella and placing a second crepe on top. He repeats this process until he's created a towering stack of heavenly goodness. He finishes it with a dollop of cream, a garnish of strawberries, and a dusting of powdered sugar before presenting it to her salivating palate with a sweeping bow.

"Breakfast is served."

"I'll be right back."

She leaves a surprised Arthur and hurries to her bedroom to grab her cell phone. When she returns he's returned to the stove to start on his own breakfast. With her phone's camera function, she snaps a picture of her crepe stack, and then one of Arthur when he turns around to question her.

"If I'm going to tell the story of the most bizarre day of my life I should have photographic evidence, don't you think?" she asks, before putting her phone down and grabbing a knife and a fork.

He just smiles as he watches her cut away a large mouthful of crepes. She smiles back, saluting him with her forkful before stuffing her mouth.

"Omagah." The flavors explode against her taste buds even before she's finished chewing her first bite. Closing her eyes, she savors the airy crepes, the chocolate and hazelnut-y goodness of the Nutella, and the slight tartness of the strawberries.

"It's just as you had promised," she says, licking her lips and capturing the last bits of sweetness. "That just melted in my mouth."

She catches him swallowing hard, gazing at her mouth. "I—" he clears his throat which has suddenly gone dry, "I'm glad you like them."

"They're delicious! Totally worth doing all these dishes."

"Don't worry about the dishes," he says, turning around and putting together his own crepe stack. "I was planning on doing them all along."

She responds with a moan of pleasure after taking another mouth-watering bite. Sighing in contentment, she chews and watches the attractive, half-naked man continue slaving away in her kitchen.

_A girl can get used to this._

* * *

"So how did you become friends with Eames?"

They've migrated back to her living room with their mugs of coffee after Ariadne inhaled the rest of her crepes and watched Arthur eat his, successfully resisting the temptation to take her finger and wipe his smirking mouth whenever he had whipped cream or Nutella at its corners. As promised, he washed every dish while she made them a second pot of coffee.

"We first met in boarding school when we were thirteen. He stopped a group of guys from beating me up, which was only appropriate since he was the one to instigate that whole thing. We've been friends ever since. And now we work together."

"You work in insurance, too?" When Eames first told her that he was an insurance investigator, she didn't believe him. People who worked in insurance were middle-aged and named Stuart and Doris and lived ho-hum lives in the suburbs. They weren't charming, muscle-y Brits who slept with women like he was James Bond. And nor were they attractive strangers clad only in towels. "Do you specialize in forgeries like Eames?"

"Forgeries?" He looks up from his coffee and gives her penetrative stare.

"Yeah. Eames likes to brag that he can spot forgeries from miles away. Can you do that too?"

"Oh. Uh, no. I mean, I can a little, but not as good as Eames. He's the forgery expert. I'm more of a research man. I'm the boots on the ground conducting the investigative work for claims, that sort of thing. What about you? What do you do?"

For the first time since their meeting, she feels like she's not getting the honest truth. It's the same feeling she got when Eames first told her about his work.

_Maybe they're just embarrassed about what they do. How exciting can investigating insurance claims be?_

"I just finished my Master's degree in architecture. I work for a small firm downtown."

"Ah, that would explain all the designs." He examines the prints she has hanging on her walls. "Have you designed anything I might have seen?"

"Have you seen that new boutique hotel on Spencer? That's the street you were probably getting smashed on. There are five bars on that street alone, and Eames likes to frequent all of them."

He winces at the mention of the bars. "That's actually where I'm staying. It has a nice modern design. You designed that?"

"No. I helped designed the gas station that's a couple blocks away from it."

"Oh. Well, people need a place to fill up their gas, too."

"Thanks, but I'm well aware of the awe-inspiring gap between a gas station versus a trendy hotel. But I am just starting out. It'll probably be another three to four decades before you can say you've stepped into one of my masterpieces, and that's _if_ I'm lucky."

"I don't mean to sound rude, but you don't sound very optimistic. Or confident in your work."

"I'm just being realistic. Not every architect will design an architectural marvel, at least not one that will be actualized. It'll take a combination of years of hard work, being in the right place and the right time, knowing the right people, and the right amount of luck for it to happen. But I'm not going to give up."

Perhaps it was the way she said it, but he gives her a measuring look, one that must have concluded in her favor because he asked if he could see some of her designs. And as she's always eager to show off her talents—because she is good at what she does—she hands him a sketchbook of some rough sketches done when inspiration struck. While he peruses those, she boots up her laptop to show him some technical plans and other completed projects she had been working on throughout school up until now.

As she flips through her work, she explains certain details, things she finds interesting and unique about her designs. Most people she knows don't care or understand half of what she's talking about, which is why she's surprised when he asks about a hidden room in one of her home floor plans.

"I've got to admit, I'm impressed you even noticed that."

He shrugs, as if it's not a big deal. "I've had to study a floor plan or two for my job."

She tries to figure out how that may come up in his line of work, but can't and doesn't question it. Instead, she explains, "I love discreet passages, hidden spaces, all that. It's like a secret between me and the building. Not to mention they're challenging, but a lot of fun to design and incorporate."

She catches him smile at that last bit before he makes his way back to the couch to sip on his coffee.

Shutting off her laptop, she continues, "I'd love to see my designs built some day in the near future. But until then, they'll be there in my dreams." She's being whimsical, but Arthur gives her such an intense look that she starts to feel uncomfortable. "But enough about me. What about you? Have you always wanted to work in insurance?"

_What kind of question is that? Who grows up wanting to work in insurance?_

Arthur chuckles but his accompanying smile makes her feel less stupid. "No, but it's not as bad as it sounds. I get to travel quite a bit. The majority of our clientele is international."

"Yeah, I've noticed Eames is out of town a lot. In fact, I think it's been at least three weeks since I last saw him."

"We were working on a job—a claim," he corrects. "It went well. We celebrated last night. A little too much." He gives her a lopsided grin.

It's her turn to laugh. "I take it this has never happened to you before? You know, getting smashed, losing your clothes in a bet, breaking into a stranger's house, passing out on her couch, getting caught half-naked, and then making breakfast dressed only in a towel?"

"Actually, all of those things have happened to me before, just not all in one night."

He grins, clearly enjoying the surprise on her face. She wants to ask, but he moves away and gestures to her chess set.

"Is this just for show or do you actually play?"

"You want to play chess? Now?"

He shrugs. "Why not? Unless there's something else you want to do?"

_I want to ask you about the other times you supposedly broke into a stranger's house. And about all the times you've been caught half-naked and why there have been so many. Is it because you know you look good without clothes?_

"Yeah, I play."

* * *

_He's doing this on purpose. He knows it's distracting me._

Ariadne watches Arthur rub her captured bishop against his lips in a thoughtful gesture. He's taking his time making this next move, all the while distracting her by drawing attention to his mouth. That wise-cracking, dimple-inducing, mouth.

_He's an evil genius._

They've been playing for the last hour, with this their second game. She won the first, which both surprised him and taught him not to underestimate her. He challenged her to a second, claiming he wanted a chance to even the score. So far, he was doing that, and more.

After he finally moves one of his pawns forward, he leans back with a satisfied smile. His bare chest is on full display and it's only after he politely covers a yawn that she realizes it's her turn to move. Without much thought to strategy, she advances one of her own pawns, only to see it easily captured by one of his knights.

_Dammit!_

She sees him smile, her bishop still between his fingers.

_Oh, he definitely knows what he's doing._

A knock on the door saves her from losing another one of her pieces for the time being, as she gets up and checks the peephole.

"It's Eames," she calls out before unlocking her door.

"Good morning. It is good morning, isn't it? I hope these circumstances weren't too much of a nuisance for you?" Eames smiles as if he knows for a fact that she was actually enjoying her morning, however unorthodox the start of it was.

"It's been an interesting morning, to say the least. Come on in."

As soon as he saunters through the door, Arthur asks, "Did you bring me some clothes?"

But instead of answering, Eames asks, "What have you two been up to all morning, besides playing strip chess and losing."

It isn't until he's cackling at his own joke that Ariadne notices just how little clothing she has on. She never changed after getting up in the morning, and perhaps because of the extreme heat and Arthur being clad only in his underwear (and her towel) for the most part, she didn't realize just how underdressed she was, wearing only a tank top and tiny shorts.

Belatedly, she crosses her arms to cover her chest.

"Eames." His name is a warning, matching Arthur's face. "I think we've inconvenienced Ariadne enough."

"You're right," Eames sobers and hands Arthur a shirt and pair of pants that he brought along with him. "Thank you, Ariadne. Like I said before, I owe you one. We're sorry for putting you out."

"Well, I admit the last thing I was expecting when I woke up this morning was a stranger passed out on my couch, but I did get a delicious breakfast out of it."

Eames grins, shooting a look at Arthur who proceeds to dress right in front of them in what are obviously Eames' clothes. In any other circumstance Ariadne would have been surprised that he didn't go into the bedroom for some privacy, but she did spend the morning with him in nothing more than his underwear and a towel, so modesty isn't necessarily called for.

"Oh? Let me guess, an expertly executed layered stack of crepes, strawberries, Nutella, and whipped cream."

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"It's Arthur's specialty. And it also happens to be one of the _P's_ in TPG."

At the mention of the _triple promise guarantee_, Arthur's ears turn pink, leaving her in no doubt of its elusive creator. Now dressed in Eames' clothes, he looks like a different person and Ariadne forces herself to stifle a sigh. The clothes hang on Arthur, the shirt befitting a man with a broader chest. And the pants are definitely a downgrade from her towel, a bit loose with the unfortunate fit of disguising Arthur's ass.

_I guess all good things must come to an end._

Eames leans in conspiratorially and announces in a stage whisper, "And believe it or not, it's not even his most impressive _P_."

When she gives Eames a questioning look, he just says, "Or so I've been told. We're close, but we're not _that_ close."

"Alright, I think we've taken up enough of Ariadne's time and patience." Arthur grabs Eames by the elbow and ushers him out the door.

"Goodbye, neighbor! I'll never forget what you did. Or what Arthur did! I can't wait to tell our other friends that he—

Arthur shoves him none too gently out the door and shuts it in his face before turning to Ariadne with an apologetic smile.

"I don't know how to thank you enough for putting up with all this."

Ariadne smiles, feeling confused. While she can't exactly say it was no trouble at all, she also knows she's enjoyed the morning much more than she probably should have. It all adds up to making her reluctant to say goodbye.

"You already have. You made those awesome crepes and I beat you in chess. All of which goes towards the making of a great story, remember?"

He smiles, seemingly as hesitant to leave as much as she's disinclined to see him go. "Yeah. Um, I better get going." He steps out of the door and takes a step off her porch before turning around. "Maybe I'll see you around some time. When I'm properly dressed."

Hanging on her door, she smiles and waves goodbye.

"Yeah, come by and visit again. But next time, use the front door."

* * *

_Two days later._

Ariadne picks up her cell phone on the first ring.

"Hello."

"Uh, hi. Is this Ariadne?"

Recognizing the voice, she smiles into the phone and replies in the affirmative.

"This is Arthur. From the other day, when I…um, you know, Eames' friend?"

"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…" she pretends to try and place the name. "Oh, you mean the dude who was drunk out of his mind and broke into my home and passed out on my couch in his underwear?"

He chuckles, the hesitancy in his earlier words released. "I prefer thinking of myself as the guy who made you that amazing breakfast _and_ who let you beat him in chess."

"I beat you fair and square and you know it."

"You did. And I challenged you to a rematch, which I was winning."

_Only because you were being obscene with that bishop, drawing attention to your mouth and distracting me from the game._

"Is that why you're calling me? You want to finish the game?"

He laughs on the other end of the line, a nervous kind of laugh that she can't picture coming from him. "I hope you don't mind. I got your number from Eames. Actually, um, I was wondering...if you don't have any plans tonight, would you like to go get some dinner with me?"

_Is he asking me out, or is this just his way of saying thank you? But he didn't specifically say it was a thank you dinner. That was what the pancakes were for. This is a date. I think. What does it matter? Why am I over thinking this?_

"Shit, I don't even know if you have a boyfriend. Sorry, I wasn't thinking—

_He's asking you out on a date, dummy. Say yes._

"No!"

_That's not a yes._

"I mean, no, I don't have a boyfriend."

_Okay, good. Now just say you'd love to have dinner with him._

"What about your clothes?"

_What is the matter with me?_

"Uh…"

"I mean, I know you lost your clothes and had to borrow some from Eames, and…"

_Abort! Abort! Why they hell am I bringing that up? It's not like he'd just be sitting around without any proper clothes. This isn't the other day._

Much to her relief, Arthur laughs it off. "Don't worry, I have proper clothing. I won't be underdressed this time. In fact, I've been told that I dress up quite nicely. It's amazing what proper tailoring can do."

She tries to picture him in a suit and tie, but an image of him in her towel pops up.

"Okay, why don't you come over here and prove it? I've got to see it, to believe it."

She can picture his smile. "Great. How about I pick you up at six?"

_And that's how you accept a date. Nice save on the earlier brain fart.  
_

They discuss the details for their night, excitement racing through Ariadne's veins. When they get off the phone, she goes through a mental preparation check list.

_Okay, I have to shower and shave and wash my hair—did I wash those red panties? And do I have any more strawberries? What about condoms? Maybe I should go shopping first._

She grabs her purse and keys and rushes out the door, thoughts of Arthur and what the night ahead might promise.

_Hopefully more than great food._

She's not ashamed to admit, she wants the TPG.

**Author's Confessions:**

This fic was obviously inspired by the above two prompts, the recent California heatwave, my love of all things cake, Nutella, and strawberries, and Arthur in the kitchen.

I kind of have to laugh at myself, I never thought I'd write nearly 7K on what I thought would be a little ficlet. But I'm also kind of impressed with myself that I did. Sometime you never know what will inspire you. /brag

I hope you enjoyed reading!


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